heast point. There he would throw himself at full length on the
summit of the bluff, with the surf in his ears and the cool, salt breeze
on his face, and watch the sun flashing from the brown glass toggles
near the white lobster-buoys; or, lifting his gaze to the horizon beyond
the purple deep, he would trace the low, rolling humps of the mainland
hills, the cleft range of Isle au Haut, or the heights of Mount Desert.
But no studies or scenery caused him to forget his daily trip with
sweater and rockweed.

The glades on the southern edge of the woods were overgrown with
raspberry-bushes. When Filippo's daily stint about the camp was
finished, he visited these spots with his pail; and while the season
lasted, heaping bowls of red, dead-ripe fruit or saucers of sweet
preserve varied their customary fare. There were blueberries, too, in
abundance, and these also made a welcome addition to their table.

"Boys," said Lane, one morning, "I'm meat hungry. I can still taste that
beefsteak we got the other night at Rockland. Think of the ton or so of
mutton chops running loose on top of this island, while we poor Crusoes
are starving to death on the beach!"

"No need of waiting until you're in the last stages, Budge," observed
Jim. "Uncle Tom told me we could have a lamb whenever we wanted one. All
we've got to do is to kill it."

A silence settled over the camp. The boys looked at one another. Nobody
hankered for the job.

"Budge spoke first," suggested Throppy.

"I'm no butcher," returned Lane. "Come to think of it, I don't care much
for lamb, after all."

"Now see here!" said Jim. "What's the use of beating round the bush?
We're all crazy for fresh meat. The only thing to do is to draw lots to
see who'll sacrifice his feelings and do the shooting. We'll settle that
now."

He cut four toothpicks into uneven lengths.

"Filippo's not in this."

He had noticed that the Italian's olive face had grown pale.

"Now come up and draw like men!"

The lot fell to Lane.

"You're it, Budge! Don't be a quitter! There's the gun and here's our
last shell. Don't miss!"

Lane's lips tightened. But he took the gun, put in the shell, and
started up over the bank.

"Don't follow me," he flung back. "I'll do this alone."

Five minutes of silence followed. Then--_bang!_

"He's done it!" exclaimed Throppy.

The boys felt unhappy. In a few minutes Lane came crunching down the
gravel slope. His face was sober.

"Where's the la